The first public meeting for potential shareholders took place at the Monroe County Convention Center, just a few blocks south of the downtown square. Roughly three hundred people showed up, many dressed in Dodger blue and carrying signs.

Outside the convention center, two large groups and one lone woman were picketing. Bloomington is the epicenter of Midwest Values vs. Liberal Political Correctness. It’s called the “City of Trees,” and believe me, they’re well-hugged. On the other side of the spectrum, the Bibles in this town are well thumped.

It’s a fun town if you’re chronically detached from taking a stand on anything. If so, you can sit back and watch the two sides square off on the issue du jour. You can be sure that any idea will be met by the sign-carrying faithful from one end of the political spectrum to the other. Having your idea, plan, or project protested in Bloomington is the litmus test for its legitimacy. You know you’re on to something when you see a group of people carrying signs.

Tonight’s contestants included vegans, environmentalists, and Klondike’s wife. The Bloomington Vegans were marching because of hot dogs. Apparently, the idea of pork and beef leftovers being used to produce hot dogs was particularly offensive to them.

They were marching to insist that we use tofu dogs at the ballpark. I could argue that nobody had actually proven that hot dogs really are pork or beef, but I figured it was irrelevant. I don’t like debating the Bloomington Vegans. They are an unhappy clan, always quick to get into a debate about culinary morality. They never seem to smile. I don’t look down on them. I just feel sorry for them. I hope that there are happy vegans somewhere.

The DWARVES had turned out because of the ballpark construction. They were afraid of wetlands being destroyed, new roads being built, trees being lost, and bathing. They shouted at me as I walked by, calling me a tree murderer and an eco-traitor. One man asked if I could hear the cry of the trees. I told him if his friends could keep it down, I would try and listen. Using his middle finger, he signaled that I was number one.

It’s not that I’m anti-tree or anti-green or anti-owls or whatever. It’s just that the people protesting that night had made some really bad assumptions about what we were planning

to do. No one had publicly mentioned anything about a site for the new stadium. Yet they just assumed we were going to start ripping down trees, desecrating wetlands, and polluting the environment. In reality, we wanted to build it downtown between the Square and IU campus on a spot that had been a public eyesore for years. No wetlands or wildlife were in danger, unless you included the termites and cockroaches that inhabited some of the old buildings we would tear down.

Klondike’s wife, Bonnie, was protesting Klondike. Apparently since the morning in the diner, he had been consumed with the Dodgers. So much so, that he had missed their anniversary the night before. She carried a sign that said “Keep Frank Lopilato Off the Board of Directors.” On the opposite side of the sign it read, “Ask Me Why He’s a Bad

Husband.” No one did.

Poor Klondike. He was probably the best husband and father at the meeting. He was faithful, loving, and gentle. However, he was the beleaguered father of five girls. No man can hold up under all that estrogen. It’s just not possible. Thus Klondike was more susceptible to guy things than the average male. Naturally, when guy things like this came along, he seemed to lose himself in them.

I decided to make a few notes for my column. I watched as the Vegans and the DWARVES got louder and more aggressive with the people entering the convention center. While they were taking more and more interest in who was coming, Bonnie became less aware of what was happening around her. She collided with Maple, sending the Vegan to the ground. Bonnie went pale, and then threw up. I walked over to Bonnie to see if I could help her. She took my arm and I slowly walked her into the lobby.

Nearly out of breath, she muttered, “I haven’t thrown up this much since the last time I was pregnant.”

“You’re not pregnant again?”

She smiled, but didn’t answer me.

“Does he know?”

“Not yet.”

“Hope it’s a boy,” I said.

She went into the ladies’ room to compose herself. I waited around to make sure she was all right. Inside the convention center a mass of people filled the lobby and adjoining hallways. The main auditorium was upstairs, so a steady stream of people were either walking up the stairs or riding the adjacent escalators.

Bonnie emerged from the ladies’ room looking very pale. I accompanied her up the escalator and walked with her to the back row of the auditorium. Sections of white folding chairs were already filled with excited future franchise owners. Long green curtains flanked the room on either side. The chairs faced a stage on which a podium and a half circle of padded chairs had been placed. Those chairs were empty, but numerous people were walking on and off the stage.

Bonnie assured me she was OK and I turned back towards the aisle. Across the aisle at the end of the row sat a woman in a business suit. She tossed a wave of brown hair over her shoulder so she could continue thumbing through her open brief case. As she did, it exposed her face and gave me a glimpse of her eyes. What was my name? Why were all these people here? I’m not really sure how long I stood there staring at her. I’m sure she never noticed me. I just know that I was jelly. I was jelly with amnesia. I was so jelly that I didn’t hear Bonnie vomiting, again.

“Andy!”

“What?”

“Andy!”

“What?”

“It’s time to take the plunge. ”

“You’re right. I’ll ask her to marry me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Darryl was standing in front of me now. I couldn’t see her. The spell was broken. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s time to start the meeting. Who are you going to ask to marry you?”

I shoved him aside, pointed towards her seat and said, “Her.” She was gone. Her briefcase was there, but she was nowhere in sight. He gave me a strange look and started

walking to the front of the room. I looked for her for a couple more minutes, and then slowly made my way up front to join Klondike, Darryl, and Pete.

Pete called the meeting to order and then introduced the rest of us. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have called this meeting to inform you of our intent to form a corporation. The sole purpose of this corporation will be to purchase the Los Angeles Dodgers and move them to Bloomington, Indiana. We will make stock available to anyone wishing to purchase shares.

“Shares will go on sale Monday. Our headquarters will be on the north side of the Square, next to Stoute’s Music Store. The initial management team will consist of myself as president and Mr. Frank Lopilato as vice president. A treasurer/secretary will be named shortly. Serving as marketing and communications directors will be the team of Darryl Robinson and Andy Bennett.”

Darryl and I didn’t have lots of cash to invest like Pete and Klondike, so we weren’t on the board of directors. But our day jobs allowed us the flexibility to be involved, and Pete and Klondike treated us as equals when it came to decision making. Before Pete could continue, a guy in the front row yelled, “How come you get to be president? It seems we should vote on it!”

Pete waited through some applause and other comments and then answered. “We are the initial investors. I am investing nearly one million dollars of my own money and Mr. Klondike—I mean, Mr. Lopilato—has invested over five hundred thousand dollars.”

Bonnie vomited again.

He continued. “We are taking the initial risk and we’re going to steer this project. We’re inviting you to invest along with us and to trust our vision. If we succeed in purchasing the team, there will be annual meetings of the shareholders and you can vote us out if you’d like. But for starters, this is the team that is going to run the show.”

That answer must have been OK for Front Row Guy because I could see him nodding his head in agreement. From way in the back, I could see Bonnie being helped out again. She was shaking her fist towards her husband.

No one else seemed to want to challenge Pete’s explanation, so he continued. “With the backing of our mayor, who will speak in a moment, we will form a task force to study potential sites for a new ballpark. We anticipate that the Dodgers will continue to play in Los Angeles as we construct a world-class baseball stadium here in Southern Indiana. When it is completed, we will move the team to Bloomington. Now, let’s hear from Mayor Gomez.”

Mayor Gomez talked about baseball and voting and sending a manned mission to Mars for all I know. I wasn’t paying a bit of attention. Somewhere in the crowd was the woman who turned me to jelly. She wasn’t sitting in the row I first saw her in. Where was she? I kept leaning to my right to try to see around Front Row Guy. He must have been about six foot seven. I leaned so far that my head was touching Klondike’s shoulder. He elbowed me in the gut. I made a sound that distracted the mayor, causing him to shoot a quick glance back at us. I hoped she didn’t see that.

When the mayor finished, talk turned to the name of the corporation. Pete had decided to let the attendees suggest ideas. “Let’s call it ‘the Bloomington Baseball Corporation,’” someone shouted from the back of the room.

“No, I like ‘Dodger Baseball Midwest,’” yelled another.

“I like ‘Dodger Ball.’”

“No, no, that sounds too much like dodge ball.”

I yawned through about a dozen names until Darryl said, “What about ‘Trolley Dodgers, Inc.’? They were originally called the Trolley Dodgers. We can rename them when we move them to Bloomington.”

Darryl was right; they really were once called the Trolley Dodgers. Before that, they had a string of odd names that I was glad nobody suggested. One glaring example: the

Bridegrooms. They played under that name in 1888 because seven players got married within a few months of each other. A year later sportswriters dubbed them the Superbas after a popular vaudeville act of the same name. They remained the Superbas for over twenty years until fans and the press labeled them the Trolley Dodgers because of the complex maze of trolley lines in turn-of-the-century Brooklyn.

For Brooklyn, the trolleys represented progress. It was an industrialized, working-class, cultural melting pot. Trolleys carried people night and day to job and home. Trolleys carried dreamers, while the other dreamers darted in between them. They were American dreamers. Trolleys carried workers, while other workers marched around them. The jobs to which they went offered a slice of the American dream to immigrants, sons of immigrants, and grandsons of immigrants. The homes they returned to reminded them of the opportunity America had to offer. Although by today’s standards we might think they led poor, dreary lives, compared to the lifestyles they left behind, they were living like royalty.

And the kings of Brooklyn were the Dodgers. In those days players weren’t millionaires. In those days the center fielder during the summer might be the short order cook at the diner during the winter. The players lived in the towns where they played. They worked with the regular folks during the off-season. They kept the name Trolley Dodgers for only three seasons. For the next seventeen years they were known as the Robins— for reasons that I’m sure involved grain alcohol and a lost bet. In 1932, they became the Dodgers and have been ever since. Throughout their early history, they played in the shadows of New York’s Giants and Yankees. Both teams had won world championships. But in Brooklyn, a World Series title was the trolley they could never seem to catch.

In 1944, the Dodgers’ fortunes would change for the worst and the best. Three businessmen purchased twenty-five percent of the franchise. Under their leadership, the Dodgers would enjoy their most prosperous years. However, this would also be the ownership group that would break the hearts of Brooklyn fans by moving the team to Los Angeles in 1957. Still, the people of Brooklyn did get one chance to dance between the trolleys. On October 4, 1955, the Dodgers finally won the World Series. After losing the first two games of the series to the Yankees, pitcher Johnny Podres shut down the Yankee hitters in game three. The Dodgers then won two of the next three to force a game seven. Podres again pitched a brilliant game and the hated New York Yankees, Brooklyn’s biggest rival, were defeated. Podres was so popular in the Latin community abroad that a parade was held in his and the Dodgers’ honor on St. Thomas Island.

The Dodgers were involved in two of the biggest stories in the history of the game. The first was the signing of Jackie Robinson. For years, black baseball players were denied the opportunity to compete with white and Latin ballplayers. The Dodgers made history when Jackie Robinson took the field wearing Dodger blue. Jackie opened the doors for other black baseball players and helped bring a World Series to Brooklyn. The second great controversy came when the Dodgers moved west. Just when the Pacific Coast League thought they had a chance to become the third major league, the Dodgers and subsequently the Giants moved to California.

Forty years later, we were trying to pull off our own Dodger controversy. Changing the name would be controversial throughout the baseball world. But tonight we just had to concern ourselves with the citizens of Bloomington.

Darryl’s comment set off a wave of discussion from the front to the back of the room. The name seemed to capture everyone’s imagination. I thought about it for a while. Should I point out that Bloomington doesn’t have trolleys? I didn’t have to.

From the back of the room came a shout. “But we don’t have trolleys.”

From the middle came, “Yeah, we don’t have a one.”

Front Row Guy said, “Uh, he’s right. We ain’t got any.”

“But we could get one,” shouted the deputy mayor.

Vernon Whip, city councilman and outstanding citizen, said, “We could get rid of all the buses and replace them with trolleys. But have you considered changing the team’s name to ‘the Chipmunks’?”

“Uh, he’s right. We could get rid of all the buses,” said Front Row Guy. Then a delayed reaction hit him. “Did you say ‘chipmunks’?”

“Tell Front Row Guy to shut up,” I told Pete.

“He’s Mrs. Mayor’s nephew.”

“Of course he is.”

After some more discussion, the name Trolley Dodgers, Inc., was agreed upon. We knew there was a lot of excitement in the community, but how many of these people would show up next Monday and plop down their money on a team? For the most part, these weren’t rich people. They were the same people riding trolleys in Brooklyn—working-class dreamers. It was going to take a lot of them to make this work. It was also going to take a few angels with deep pockets.

Carry on, Citizens!